


Showing What Happened Aboard The Train From Omaha To Chicago

by radondoran



Category: Le tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours | Around the World in Eighty Days - Jules Verne
Genre: Fainting, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radondoran/pseuds/radondoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of Chapter XXXI, our four weary travelers share a companionable moment during the last stage of their American tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Showing What Happened Aboard The Train From Omaha To Chicago

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/gifts).



> Hi, Miss M--it's me, your assigned author! While I was ~~procrastinating~~ doing research for my Yuletide assignment proper, I made [a timeline](http://timeglider.com/app/viewer.php?uid=line_cab8d455f0424e9b464e5eb6a1d380d9) of the events in _Around the World in Eighty Days_ , and part of the timeline gave me the idea for this scene. I thought you might like it too, so I've uploaded it as a Treat. (Other than that, though, the two stories have nothing to do with one another.)

A train was ready to start when Mr. Fogg and his party reached the station, and they only had time to get into the cars.  Inspector Fix, who had procured the sledge from Fort Kearney to Omaha, was now eager to proceed to Chicago.  Had he really been convinced of the truth of Mr. Fogg's project?  Whatever his thoughts, it was clear that he now seemed totally invested in its progress.  The four travelers ran through Omaha station as if moved by one accord.

Halfway to the platform, though, Passepartout's steps suddenly slowed.  His face, normally so ruddy, was paper-white; his legs were trembling, and a gray mist swam before his eyes.  "Mr. Fogg!" he cried out, in tones of the greatest despair--for the fact of the matter was, that the trials of the past two days were catching up with Passepartout at the worst possible moment.  He was totally exhausted after his daring rescue of the train and subsequent escape from the Indians, and none of the travelers had taken any food or rest since the battle twenty-six hours before.

Fogg, Aouda, and Fix slowed in their turn, and looked at one another.  It was a tense moment.  If they stopped now, even for five minutes, they would lose the train to Chicago, and there would be no chance whatever of Fogg's making it to New York, or London, within the prescribed time.  Passepartout knew all this, but no matter how he tried, the poor fellow simply could not go any further.

To the surprise of all, and none more than Passepartout, it was Fix who took charge of the situation.  He moved in as soon as Passepartout staggered and caught him firmly by the elbow.  Then he kept walking, hurrying the other along on stumbling feet.  "Step lively, now," he said.  "Just a little further.  Breathe deep, and clench your fists tight to keep the blood flowing."

Passepartout obeyed, gripping convulsively at the detective's coat-sleeves.  Mr. Fogg went ahead with the bags, and assisted Fix in hoisting him into the railway carriage before offering Aouda a hand up.  The party had no sooner reached their seats than the train lurched to a start.  Passepartout fell faster than he could sit, and all was darkness.

When he came to he was lying down, his knees hanging awkwardly from the edge of the bench seat.  His coat was open, his collar had been loosened, and someone--Fix again--was crouched beside the seat, raising a little brandy and water to his lips.  He became conscious of the noise and motion of the carriage's wheels, and this imparted to his muddled brain some recollection of what had happened.

"The train; the train!" he cried, trying frantically to sit up.

Fix checked him with a hand on his shoulder.  "We made it aboard," he said.  "Just lie back for a few minutes."

The command was superfluous; when Passepartout raised his head, it was as if someone had tried to knock it back into place with a hammer.  He groaned and resigned himself to lie back and breathe deeply for a few moments more.

Fix placed two fingers on Passepartout's left wrist--the mitten had already been removed while he was unconscious--and took out his watch to mark the seconds.

"Are you a medical man, Mr. Fix?" asked Fogg.

"I?"  Fix seemed embarrassed at the question.  "Oh, no, sir.  You just can't help picking up this kind of thing in--in my line of work, that's all.  ...Your pulse is stronger already," he told Passepartout.  "You'll be just fine in a minute or two."

"Thank heaven," breathed Aouda; in all likelihood it was for her benefit that Fix had spoken.

Passepartout collected his bearings, and felt a wave of shame pass over him.  "Then we nearly lost our train because of my weakness?" he said aloud.

"We did not lose the train," said Mr. Fogg.

Aouda smiled at this response, and then added, "You can hardly blame yourself"--thus supplementing Fogg's pragmatic approach with a more customary human kindness.

From his place close by Passepartout's ear, Fix echoed her sentiment.  "After all that, I don't think any of us are quite in top form."  He paused a moment as if to reconsider; he and Passepartout looked together across at the facing seat, and then back at one another with a conspiratorial smile.  They had both realized the corollary:   _Except for Mr. Fogg, but then he's a machine._

Ignorant of this unspoken compliment, Phileas Fogg looked at his watch.  "It is a trifle later than the customary lunch hour," said he, "but in this case I think a meal would be appropriate.  Are you hungry, Passepartout?"

Despite the lingering giddiness, Passepartout found that he was ravenous.  "Starving, monsieur."

Fix and Aouda also enthusiastically cast their votes in favor of this motion.  Mr. Fogg called a passing seller of food from the center aisle, and arranged to have lunch for four sent to their seats from the restaurant-car; no-one felt especially inclined to do any more traveling that day, not even within the confines of the train.

Passepartout now managed to sit up without difficulty, and Fix took his place in the seat beside him.  He seemed to fit there.  Perhaps it was only the fatigue, but for the first time since Hong Kong Passepartout felt at ease with the detective.  Was he still an enemy of Mr. Fogg, or had he been converted to their side?  Passepartout could not tell, but for the next fifty-seven hours, it scarcely mattered.  If Fix had wanted to halt their progress, he could have done so; instead, he had proven twice today that he was, at least, an ally, as dedicated to reaching New York as Phileas Fogg himself.  For the present, Mr. Fogg, Aouda, Fix and Passepartout were nothing less than fellow-travelers, companions bound for the same destination.

"Monsieur Fix?"

"What is it?"

"Thank you."  It was as much as he had said to Fix during their whole American tour.

"Don't mention it," replied Fix.

In a few minutes the lunch arrived, and no conversation was attempted as the four hungry travelers immediately set upon it.  The chefs of the Chicago and Rock Island Railroad had outdone themselves.  "Hunger is the best sauce in the world," as Cervantes so wisely tells us, and it is doubtful that even Phileas Fogg, with all the resources of the Reform Club at his disposal, ever enjoyed a meal so much.

As the first course was finished, however, and the restorative effect of the food and drink took hold, the conversation picked up again.  The reaction against the stress of the last two days, and the excitement of racing against the clock to New York, made our travelers almost merry.  Aouda entreated Mr. Fogg and Passepartout to tell the story of their skirmish with the Sioux; which they did, to her admiration and no less that of Fix.  As for Fix, Passepartout complimented his luck and ingenuity in obtaining their transit to Omaha, to general agreement.  Mr. Mudge and his unique craft were praised to the heavens, and subjected to comparison with the masters of the _Mongolia_ , the _Rangoon_ , the _Carnatic_ , the _Tankadere_ , and the _General Grant_ \--from which, let it be said, Mudge emerged very favorably indeed.

When the lunch was cleared away, they continued to chat about their grand successes on this continent so far, with high hopes of reaching New York just in time.  Soon the conversation fell to whispers, and died away altogether, as one by one the travelers surrendered to sleep in their seats, without waiting for the coach to be converted for night.  Aouda slumped against Phileas Fogg's shoulder, while he sat still in his stoic way and supported her as comfortably as it was in his power to do.  Passepartout, all his suspicions for the moment forgotten, slept soundly beside his ally, Fix.  For once Inspector Fix had no qualms about shutting his eyes while the fugitive Phileas Fogg still waked.  And last of all Mr. Fogg, too, slept.

Outside the warmth and light of the car, a light snow was falling on the wide, flat emptiness of the Iowa plains, but it was not enough to impede the train's progress.  Without being aware of it, Phileas Fogg and his companions sped on, past Council Bluffs and Des Moines, towards New York and London, and the end of their journey together.


End file.
